Voice Of An Unsung Hero
by Snixxers
Summary: Supposedly there wasn't much more to Telluride, Colorado than ski slopes and celebrity tourists; and there isn't much more to Santana Lopez then meets the eye. Nothing except whispers of an unsung hero with a voice that could enrapture thousands -but namely, one.


…

After years of flying, Quinn was all but desensitized to airplanes. It became less of a chore to fly cross country, and more of a mindless pastime. It's not that she enjoyed them, really; the long periods of time in one chair, often with a less than desirable companion in the chair beside her – the kind that stole your armrest, or demanded window seat, the ones who shifted tirelessly through the entire flight making it obvious to the woman that they weren't frequent fliers. Not like she was.

The worst ones, sadly, were the fans. The ones who recognized her, making the next several hours like an extensive game of 20 questions that left her feeling more tired at the end of the flight than usual. It never settled with her how people could be so inquisitive about you just because you were famous. If she'd been anyone else, would they have bothered to find out her favorite colors, pet names and hobbies? Not usually. Sure she lived a life of wealth and fame, but deep down inside she was still that girl from Wisconsin who loved horses, braided her hair and had crushes on all the popular boys in school. She wasn't different, she wasn't _special_. Quinn Fabray was _just_ Quinn Fabray.

This time, though, wasn't one of those times. Her destination was a popular one for tourists this time of year, the plane packed with people eager to hit the slopes of the Rockies for the winter. Quinn had never been to the cozy city of Telluride before in her life, and never had she planned to until her parents up and moved there a few months prior.

_It was nice,_ they said, _m__ade them feel young again._

Quinn supposed that was all good and fine, but it was unlike them to do big changes like that. Even now, she wonders if the blame is her mother's mid-life crisis. A wonder that won't be said aloud.

Despite the full plane and chattering peoples, Quinn was graced with a tolerable companion. He said he was going to Telluride for the snowboarding, said he went every year. They chatted it up from L.A to their destination, and not once did he ask 'Aren't you Quin Fabray?' or 'Can I have an autograph?'. Instead he talked of the city, of places to go and people he knew.

The only place that really stuck out on the list of destinations was a place called Rockos. Despite the name, he praised the place for a fair amount of time. A burlesque club, he'd said, but far more classy. It was tradition to go there at least once during his stay. "You won't believe this place, Quinn. The minute you walk in, it feels like home and a foreign place at the same time. Like you're returning home for the first time in a long time, come to find they'd rearranged everything and you're seeing it all all over again in a new light." Quinn wonders is he's had one too many hits from a bong, but she likes him.

For some reason, it stuck in Quinn's mind long after they'd left the plane and she'd gathered her bags; even on the taxi ride across town to her parents estate. _Rockos, the home away from home._

…...

Her first full day in Telluride she's left to her own devices. After a tour of the new home and elaborate dinner the night before, she'd barely had any time to get out on the town before it was nearly midnight and sleep had overcome her. Work still called her parents away, and with nothing better to do she'd driven into town, parked on one end of main street and started walking. It was your classic mountain town, the ones that thrived on tourism. The sidewalks were bustling, all the stores were filled with souvenirs and authentic 'Telluride Made' gear. Snowboard and Ski shops had entire stocks rented out, and nearly every car that drove past was burdened with the weight of at least one pair of skis or a snowboard.

It's in the reflection of a window she's peeked into that she sees it. An old sign, or perhaps it was designed to look that way, with scrawling open letters of purple that read 'Rockos'. There were no windows, and the main entrance opened onto the main sidewalk, with a staircase leading down beside it.

Nothing else had caught her attention, not the way that that purple sign and antique oak doors did and before she can think it through, she's crossing the street and entering the building. It was pretty empty, but Quinn chalks it up to the early mid-day hours. A family sat at a booth to the side, and a few men sat at the bar talking gruffly to one another. The place itself is what really draws her focus. The ceilings were high, vaulted yet they hadn't been ignored in the way of decoration. Purple and deep gold drapes hung into the room, hanging from the rafters above head. The walls, were made of gray brick, dark in color that reminded her of a dingy alley in New York City. Most bricks had been written on, perhaps a ritual from people who passed through. Endless signatures after signatures across the wall. Yet despite that, the homey, warm feel of a lounge permeated the room. A stage was set up to one side, behind the stage she could see it led off to rooms behind the curtains, just out of view. That boy had been right - it did feel like home, and Quinn can't put her finger on why.

"You can choose any seat you would like."

Hazel eyes snap to the man who had approached her. Clean shaven, greased back hair and dimples that instantly disarmed you. Blinking, Quinn utters her thanks and weaves through the tables to a single one near the stage. The man follows her, smiling as she sits. "What can I get you to drink, miss?"

"Water." Quinn takes the menu, scanning the art on the front curiously.

He returns shortly after to drop off her water, lingering "You'll have to come back at night." he says.

Quinn glances at him, confused, "What?" She scans his name tag: Blaine.

"You'll have to come back at night," he repeats himself, still smiling, "This place is packed to the roof every night, and we have shows. You can really see the true spirit of Rockos."

"I'm not here to see anything. I just want some food."

Blaine surveys her, debating whether he should bother trying to cheer the girl up. Quinn sees it, feels bad for her rude behavior but she can't bring herself to apologize. "Alright, miss. Well if you find yourself out and about tonight, you should stop by." He takes her order and leaves.

To her chagrin, the food was amazing, enough that she knew she'd have to come back at least once more to satiate the craving before she left for L.A. In a better mood, she'd even thanks Blaine for the meal and gave an iffy 'might' in terms of returning that night and exited the building.

The cold air has her wrapping her jacket tighter around her body as it hits her in the face, stealing her breath. "F-fuck." Her teeth clatter as she ducks to the side of the doors to decide what to do next. There's a woman beside her, what Quinn assumed to be a cigarette between her lips and without a jacket to protect her tanned skin from the cold air.

As if the woman can feel Quinn's eyes burning into her, bewildered, the latina smirks and exhales smoke –it smells like blueberries. Quinn's nose wrinkles, "Live here long enough and you get used to the cold." The stranger's honeyed voice is soft, dark eyes swiveling to the irritated blonde.

"Yea, well, L.A. has ruined me. I'm fetching a jacket soon as it hits 80. You people are crazy."

"Some of us, yes. I like to think I'm pretty normal."

Quinn skips the conversation as the woman takes another drag from the – "What is that?"

Fingers roll the electronic dispenser in hand, smiling, "Hookah. Want some?"

Appalled at the offer, Quinn grimaces, "No, thank you." She shivers against the cold, curses the weather once more and sighs. "I could never live here." She'd chosen L.A. for a reason. She hated the cold.

The latina beside her frowns, "It's not so bad, you know. People are great, hobbies are to die for and if you can get past the cold, it's a charming town." Quinn watches her pocket the hookah dispenser, push off the wall and dust herself off. "Hey, are you busy? Got any plans or can you spare a minute?"

Instantly Quinn feels the need to lie, "Yea, I'm kind of busy."

The way those dark eyes flicker with knowing, it's like the raven-haired woman can see through her lie. Instead of calling her on it, she smiles and nods, "Well if you change your mind, let me know. I've got a tea recipe that'll warm you right up. See you around, Shivers. Try to enjoy your time in Telluride, I promise it's not as bad as it seems."

She disappears into the Rockos and Quinn is left alone on the sidewalk. Already her fingers feel numb and her feet heavy with packed snow, and every part of her stubborn personality tells her to march back to her car, and spend the rest of her vacation tucked safely away in her parents home. Yet once again, she's pulling open the doors to Rockos and stepping inside.

"I didn't get your name." She plays it off as she moves to the bar, where the woman has started to stack glasses.

"Santana." She seems pleased Quinn is here, as if she could tell the woman would change her mind. "Plans change?" It's a jab, and Quinn knows it.

A scowl, "Depends on how long this tea will take." She feels smug with how easily she'd been able to counter the woman, but the smile that grows on Santana's face disarms her.

"Ten minutes tops, Shivers." She turns away.

"It's Quinn." the blonde huffs, sliding into the bar stool and glaring the woman down. The latina simply chuckles, nods, and moves away to prepare this special tea she'd promised. Like a charm, ten minutes passes and a cup of hot, steaming liquid is sat in front of her. Quinn sniffs experimentally at the cup, noting the dull scent of cinnamon. After a few blows to cool it, she takes an testing sip.

Expectantly, Santana watches her. It's good, though nothing particularly extravagant on the taste scale; however, the second it slides down her throat her whole body starts to hum with warmth. Quinn gives a content sigh, but once she catches Santana's amused smirk, she growls. "It's alright. I expected more, honestly. Lacks on the flavor side."

A manicured brow raises, lips curling into a faint smile, and Quinn can't explain why she likes seeing that small twitch in her eye that shows she's insulted. "They always this rude in L.A.? Or are you all notorious tea haters?"

Quinn scoffs, but decides arguing would get her nowhere, "Tea haters, definitely. More coffee people." There's a small smile, apologetic in nature.

"Coffee is bad for you, you know."

"So's the cold."

When Santana smiles back, Quinn chuckles under her breath and takes another drink. "Whatever you say, Shivers."

"I told you, it's Quinn."


End file.
